


Dinner Party

by yespolkadot_kitty



Series: Cupboard Love [5]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dinner party with Team Witness. Nothing but fluff.</p><p>Previously posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Party

The dinner party is Miss Jenny’s idea. This doesn’t surprise Ichabod. Miss Jenny is known for her diabolical ideas and her wicked sense of humour.

He curses himself hourly for ever asking “And what treat would you have for your birthday, Miss Jenny?”

She had asked if he’d give her whatever she wanted. Perplexed, he had answered that if it was in his power, then he would grant it.

She’d wanted to attend a dinner party hosted by himself and the Lieutenant. “Now that you’re dating,” she had added.

Ichabod calls it courting - in his own head. He knows that Abbie refers to it as “whatever this is,” but she says it with a smile on her face.

They invite Jenny and Joe, and Frank, as Cynthia and Macey are away on a girls’ only spa weekend.

Ichabod tidies - top to bottom, of course - and Abbie selects the wine.

On the morning of the dinner party, Abbie is called away on an important FBI briefing.

“Sorry,” she grouses, pulling him in for a kiss that lingers. “Pretty sure there’s some sort of caveat in the FBI Handbook that says you’re not allowed a personal life. I’ll be back tonight. You’ll be OK?

He arches a brow and smiles. “Lieutenant. I faced down the headless horseman, had a hand in the infamous Boston Tea Party, and survived Franklin’s countless lightning experiments. I rather think that cooking for one dinner party should not, one hopes, elude me.”

She laughs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve got the menu down pat?” At his arch look, she frowns. “Lord. It’s Colonial, isn’t it?”

“Go.” He gently pushes her towards the door. “As you so often say, I’ve got this.”

Ichabod gives it a cautious ten minutes before grabbing a wicker bag and heading for the farmers’ market. He buys oysters, fresh mushrooms, fresh parsley and bouquet garni. From another stall he buys a whole duck, shallots, lemon and bacon. He is determined that there will not be a Bedfordshire Clanger incident in their household again.

However much he feels that cooking with a modern oven is akin to the raging fires of the seventh circle of Hell, he wants to do it.

Confound Miss Jenny and her birthday. There appears, he thinks, to be nothing that is too far beyond the reaches of this birthday madness in 2015.

He has several accidents preparing the shallots, due to wanting to use the mincer. He curses a blue streak at the damned device, sorely tempted to cosign it to the trash where it belongs. He slices the shallots by hand with a cleaver, almost skinning himself in the process.

By the time Abbie and their guests arrive, he’s figured out the electric timer, and the oysters and mushrooms are breaded and carefully threaded on wooden skewers. He’s rushing upstairs to change into something more formal - an apron and pyjamas are hardly dinner party attire, modern world or not - when he hears Miss Jenny gasp in delight.

He knows what she sees - a table set for five, using a Colonial dinner service he purchased from an antique shop some weeks ago, and hid. A large china plate with rustic scene, inlaid with gold, topped with a smaller, white china plate, topped with a gold and red baroque soup bowl.

He’d placed fat candlesticks, found in the very back of Abbie’s pantry, down the centre of the table, and lit them.

He only hopes his food - perhaps slightly burned, overseasoned, certainly - will live up to the presentation.

God’s wounds. Adams would have done far better.

“Crane.”

He turns to see Abbie in the bedroom doorway, pulling off her boots. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

“You’ve been busy. Table looks great.”

“As ever, I endeavour to please.”

“You do.” She’s on him in a heartbeat, wrapping herself around him, dragging his head down for a long, hot kiss, tiredness and gratitude and desire and love all rolling into one moment. “Never fail to surprise me.” And she hops up, anchoring her legs around his waist, pushing until he staggers back into the wall, knocked off kilter, but pleasingly so.

“Might I remind you….our guests are downstairs, Miss Mills.”

“So formal.” She nips at his mouth. “Love it when you try and resist.”

He gives up, yanking her close. “I find I am powerless. However, the issue of…. our visitors looms large.”

“There’s wine in the fridge. They’ll figure it out.”

In the end, he coaxes her downstairs with promises of repayment later in the evening. Frank’s brought a birthday cake - a fluffy, pink, hilariously unsuitable one - and they eat Ichabod’s two courses. He introduces them to the breaded oysters and mushrooms, a popular delicacy among the upper classes in his day. To his immense relief, the duck is just pink inside, and perfect.

Afterwards, they wave goodbye to their friends, the outside lamp of their house glowing in the fast descending darkness of the night. Miss Jenny’s laughter echoes down the street.

They retire to bed, full of happiness, success, and wine. And Abbie thinks up a rather creative use for the leftover cake icing.


End file.
